


Waiting in Chesapeake Bay

by Poose



Series: Treasury Collection [2]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: All of the Issues, Angst and Humor, Botany, Class Differences, Class Issues, Crying, Daddy Issues, JUST KISS ALREADY, Kanye Urchin Overcompensation, Kissing, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Summer, Tight Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander has lost track of the number of places where he fully expected to be kissed. The front drive? A bit ostentatious, all told, in front of God and Mrs. Washington. The stately rows of magnolias lining the walks? Shadowy, but in full view of the blacksmith. But there have been any number of barns since then. Secluded brick walls radiating heat, lines of laundry hung to dry. Veritable scores of hedgerows.</p><p>~~</p><p>Or, the one where Washington is super pedantic and Alexander just wants to make out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting in Chesapeake Bay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gonfalonier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/gifts).



 

 

_My dear Mr. Hamilton,_

 

_I rest assured that this letter finds you and yrs in wellness and prosperity &c. I have been making many changes to Mt. Vernon since my return and would v. much like to show them to you. It would greatly please me if you were to visit -- perhaps the next time Mrs. Hamilton ventures upstate? Although summers along the Potomac can be just as stifling as those on the Hudson, I am sure we can find a breeze to cool ourselves with. Until we meet again._

 

_I remain --_

_Your most humble and obedient servant,_

_G. Washington._

 

The sun burns fierce as they enter a wooded lot on the east side of the property. Three hours since this charade began and Washington shows no signs of flagging or of offering reprieve. Since his arrival, Washington has uttered more words than he did in whole months at the front; for his part, Alexander pretends to listen. A Grand Tour of the continent could be completed in less time. Barely had he a chance to kiss Mrs. Washington’s hand before he had been clapped on the back and spun around.

At first the general’s head blocked the afternoon sun, but when he stepped closer the faint halo became a corona and he had to blink away the sudden blindness. When he could see again, Washington beamed down at him in all his magnificence, in such a way as to make Alexander shiver despite the summer heat.

“We will see you at supper, Mrs. Washington,” he said to his wife, as he clasped Alexander’s slim hands in his large ones, “I have have much to show young Hamilton. Can you believe he has never seen Virginia?”

“I can indeed believe it,” his lady wife had said, and smiled at Alexander. A servant appeared to remove his valise. Presumably he would be housed in Lafayette’s former chambers. He thought of starched white sheets and an enamel basin of cool water with which to splash his face. It was hot and the journey had been taxing. More observant than her husband, Mrs. Washington caught Alexander’s look of longing.

Washington announced that they would be touring the grounds in their entirety. “If you’ll follow me, Hamilton, I will show you the gardens. Now, in the interest of being self-sustaining, we grow medicinal plants here as well as those for pleasure--” and here he had clasped Alexander’s elbow with proprietary familiarity. His attention was perhaps a shade more paternal than he would have liked -- at twenty six years of age Alexander is hardly a boy -- but the full weight of Washington’s attention had always pleased him immeasurably. Even to think of it now makes his fingers tingle with excitement

“Mr. Washington,” reprimanded his wife, before he could be whisked away, “our guest has traveled a great distance to dine here with us this evening. Pray you do not exhaust him completely before then, or I will be forced to make conversation with the table service.”

For the duration of a breath, they three had paused. A cricket chirped in the distance. His neck grew hot. Then, to Alexander’s astonishment, Mrs. Washington’s laugh rang out like the tinkle of a bell. And -- after another moment, the general had joined her. He had stood there transfixed to the spot. Dumbfounded, his mouth agape like a codfish to hear Washington, _Washington_ as laughter erupted from his belly and his face creased in a smile.

“Very well,” he said, steering Alexander away from the mansion, its shuttered pastel drawing rooms and cut crystal glasses of cold lemonade, “I promise to go easy on him for the time being.”

Three hours of climbing into cellars and traipsing across variegated terrain strikes Alexander as the very definition of _not easy_. His throat is parched and a pebble has worked its way into the sole of his shoe. Stinging branches thwack him in the head as he misjudges their height, with clouds of blackfly angrily buzzing away each time. The estate is easily the size of the whole of Rhode Island. Every time he thinks they surely must have reached its boundaries, they turn right or left and come upon another field.

Washington’s voice filters through his consciousness. Snatches of his conversation are intelligible, though far from diverting. Now he is talking about dirt. Who knew there were so many different types of it?

“--when I returned to the property much had fallen into disarray, though the gardens had remained in excellent shape. As I have mentioned, we aim to be self-sustaining here, which was an enterprise I began even prior to the Revolution--”

Washington has thrown himself wholesale into the role of gentleman farmer. With the amount he knows about ditches and metric yields, he could start his own agricultural college. Alexander will give that a miss, thank you very much. Law suits him well enough at present.

The courtrooms of Albany and New York can be stuffy, but at least they are shaded from the sun, not to mention that the clothes are significantly better. His emerald silk and starched cravat trap the heat of the Piedmont. His breeches, comfortable enough in the seat of a hansom or on a bench, cling to his inner thighs. Walking has rubbed him sore and he longs to take them off, splash water on the chafed places. Hair curls up at his neck from the humidity - wearing it tied back is no longer in fashion, so he wears it loose. Eliza claims it is becoming, but she flatters him in saying so.

They crunch on through the grass. Parched brown clumps of it are everywhere underfoot. Likely Washington has explained the drought, but he has shifted his attention to matters of greater importance. His general appears comfortable in black and ivory, well-tailored but entirely devoid of ornament. He has grown older since Alexander saw him last, though his posture is as proud and tall as ever, and his legs still as shapely as during the war. As they walk through a wooded lot on the east side of the property, Washington strides a few paces ahead. Alexander keeps his eyes trained a metre above the ground.

“--its quality improved greatly,” Washington continues, “as a direct result of my correspondence with a Mr. Arthur Young--”

The prospect is pleasant enough, to be sure, but, God keep him, Alexander has lost track of the number of places where he fully expected to be kissed. The front drive? A bit ostentatious, all told, in front of God and Mrs. Washington. The stately rows of magnolias lining the walks? Shadowy, but in full view of the blacksmith. But there have been any number of barns since then. A greenhouse full of corners in which to hide. Secluded brick walls radiating heat, lines of laundry hung to dry. Veritable _scores_ of hedgerows.

“--lately of Suffolk, who has shared with me his great store of knowledge regarding the rotation of crops--”

Washington forges ahead as Alexander stomps along behind him.

In the medicinal gardens, Washington had spent ages telling him about the botanical properties of a variety of mountain mint, had gone so far as to pinch off a stalk and hold it under his nose so he could _partake of its distinctive aroma_. Alexander leaned in, head tilted, eyes already sliding shut, certain that the moment was his to take. Instead of the brush of warm lips against his own he was rewarded instead with a mouthful of leaf.

 “--I experimented with several varieties of alfalfa, in conjunction with the red clover, which Young was so kind as to send eight bushels of--”

He swallowed, naturally. What else could he have done? Sucked at Washington’s finger, perhaps, offered up a ribald quip about what else had lately passed between his lips. At least the taste was to his liking.

“--you see, there is a science behind the alternating of these plants, insofar as each gives and takes something from the soil--”

With the stick he has commandeered for walking, Washington prods at a green shoot poking its way through the parched grass. He crouches down near the roots of a tall oak. The movement draws his trousers tight around his thighs. Alexander swallows. His heart hammers in his chest. He holds out hope that this will be the tree under which Washington will fulfill the implicit promise of his invitation.

“--and as you have seen from the fields, especially those closer to the main house--” 

From this shaded vantage they have true privacy at last. Why else would they pause here? Alexander runs a hand through his hair, now damp at the scalp. Unseemly though his sweat may be, he knows that the summer sun shows him to his best advantage. It turns him the colour of fine sandalwood. The flush blooming on his cheeks resembles not the scorched skin of fairer men, but the flush of a lover who has been recently fucked. With a hand he touches his warm face and smiles.

“--in the estuary areas we have a mixture here of light clay and loam, the latter of which requires much more in the way of nutrients to enrich it--”

Certain that the moment has arrived, Alexander licks his lips and looks for a picturesque tree against which to lean. After he finishes arranging himself -- hair shook out, arm braced on the tree’s trunk, hip cocked suggestively, left, no, right leg in front -- he stares at the back of Washington’s head and wills him to pause in his discourse (it cannot rightly be called conversation) long enough to notice him.

“--erosion, of course, is a main area of concern for us, in addition to the depletion of the soil, although I consider us fortunate to be free from sand in most of the fields, given our location so close to the Tidewater--”

Alexander decides that perhaps he should cross his legs at the ankle instead, and just as he switches his posture for better advantage, his heel catches on a knot of root. Ungraceful and conspicuous, he slides down the tree as his fingers scrabble to keep him upright. “Ow!” he exclaims, as his palm catches on the bark and grazes it.

Washington looks up from his ruminations, in time to watch Alexander untangle his limbs from their heap on the ground. Colour runs high in his cheeks, with shame rather than sex as its cause. Bits of twig and grass cling to his hosiery, and when he goes to wipe them off, a rusty smear of blood stains the white. “Goddamn it,” he mutters, and aware of his curse, sees Washington watching him, inscrutable as ever.

By leaning on the stick for support, Washington stands. He altogether ignores Alexander’s clumsiness, which is a relief in and of itself, and pulls a watch from his pocket. “We should return for dinner,” he decides, quickly taking in the disheveled figure before him. It takes every screed of self-restraint for him not to shriek with exuberance at the prospect. “I must change my attire before we dine,” Washington says, dryly, “though it would appear you are already dressed for the occasion.” When he glances over Alexander, his eyes hardly linger on his body. By this point the pangs of disappointment at his disregard have grown familiar.

Too slowly for his liking, they wend their way back to the front lawn. They pass a shed for drying tobacco, _the first harvest_ , Washington says, which brings the highest price at market. Even at a distance of twenty paces, Alexander’s nose twitches at the scent - heady, and somehow thicker than the smell of hay. Alexander trots after Washington, as they divert away from the main house and enter a small building set back a hundred paces from its front stoop. Apparently the Grand Tour has a penultimate stop before he will be permitted to rest.

By this point, Alexander has given up all hope of a kiss. Most unfortunate, for the setting sun provides a very romantic backdrop. Washington’s voice, when he speaks, is a low rumble. “After we join Mrs. Washington for dinner, I thought I might show you last year’s charts.” He pauses, then says, “There are several irregularities in the rainfall which strike me as being of great interest.”

Alexander cocks an eyebrow at the suggestion. Possibly he has never heard of anything duller in his entire life, but he bows, stiffly and says, “whatever you wish, Sir.”

“And here,” Washington climbs a few stairs, opens a door, “is the building I had redone for my clerk. Before that it had been used as a storeroom.”  

Relief floods through him. Finally they are headed indoors again. The air hits his face, cool and musty from where the room has been sealed all day. The structure is wooden, plastered and whitewashed, spotlessly clean but not fine. A washbasin and pitcher sit in the corner. Hot as it is, they have no need of a fire, though birchwood is stacked neatly beside the hearth. A kettle hangs from a hook by the logs. The bed is narrow and the bedclothes plain, but at least it is raised off the floor. There is a writing desk and a simple chair. A ladder leads up to what must be a storage area, rough hewn but solid. The general’s own timber, no doubt.

He takes a breath, ready to inquire who has been handling Washington's correspondence as of late, when he catches sight of his own valise on a trunk stand at the end of the bed. His writing desk, as well, laid atop the coverlet.

All at once, Alexander feels sick. He takes an involuntary step backwards as if he’s been punched in the chest. Exiled to the outbuildings. Even as far as he has come from Nevis, from St. Croix, he can never shake the doggedness of his own humble origins. A hot flush crawls across his chest and threatens to escape up his neck. Tears prick at his eyes. 

Should he be grateful? For meager scraps of attention from a _Virginian_ , of all people? The journey was too arduous, the roads too bumpy for him to compose or write. Instead Alexander spent the long hours from New York watching the landscape from the window, an unread treatise on his lap. As the buggy made its way south his imagination yielded forth one heat-induced scenario after the next: that Washington would welcome him with an embrace; that Mrs. Washington might be called away on some pretext or another; that he would be lodged in the adjacent room and in the dark of night Washington would creep in, clad only in his nightshirt, and slide beneath the coverlet with Alexander.

Of course these were the daydreams of a child. A boy, which Alexander can hardly remember being. Nor can he expect Washington to know this or to notice him. Still, it smarts. All of the times he has been had by the general, he has never been had in a bed. He would, he decides with bitterness clouding his mind, enjoy it.

Washington interrupts his swirling thoughts to confirm that he intends for him to lodge here. “We have had your things unpacked. I trust you will find these quarters suitable for your needs, such as they are.” There will be no midnight rendezvous. He must actually have brought Alexander here to discuss agriculture.

Hurt wells in his chest and Alexander desperately wants to protest this arrangement. Rooms at a tavern would be preferable to such an obvious affront. Mrs. Washington must absolutely despise his presence at their estate. Virginian blue bloods, the both of them. Mired in tradition and egoism, as if the colonies had not been formed by men looking to fly above their stations, to flee the starched confines of tradition.

“I, I-” he manages to stammer, even under the weight of Washington’s implacable gaze, “but, Sir--”

Washington turns, draws the door shut behind him. A chill sets in across the room as he does so. The latch swings into place with a quiet thud. Alexander moves away from his orbit. His head spins and he steadies himself on the ladder leading upstairs. No better than livestock, is that what they must think him?

The general moves closer so as to close the shutters, made of the same rough timber as the ladder Alexander now holds. Unstained and unfinished, an easy parallel with himself. His palm smarts from the incident with the tree; he should dress the wound, if they will so much as spare him a bandage. Does he deserve even that? The setting sun blinds Alexander momentarily before it is blocked by the shade. He blinks rapidly, tears smarting his eyes. He will not, must not, let Washington see him cry.

A change of subject will do the trick. “What kind of tree is this from, Your Excellency?” he practically spits, palm smacking against the wood of the ladder. It smarts against his wound, yet he hits it again.

“It is from a maple tree,” says Washington, “which fell in the woods in February. I had my men bring the hardwoods which could be salvaged and turn them into furniture for quarters such as these.”

“How ecologically-minded of you,” Alex retorts. “Sir.” He stares down at his feet to avoid eye contact. “You must forgive me, Sir. I am a New Yorker through and through, and know little of how things are done here in Virginia.”

“Hamilton. I had hoped,” the general responds in a measured tone, “that we might spend some time this evening, after supper--” His palms drift away from his body in a gesture of inquiry.

“--looking over the rainfall?” How Alexander hates the sound of his own voice in this moment, weedy and thin in his own ears.

“If you would be so good,” Washington replies. The look he gives Alexander seems fond. Paternal, again. How _wretched_. “With your head for numbers you could perhaps help me make sense of it?”

Alexander laughs, a short bitter burst. Figures do soothe him. “Do you value me only for my head, then, Sir?” he asks.

They are quiet for a long moment.  A bell chimes from outside, six times. They are expected for dinner. “I brought you here,” Washington says, at long last, “because I wished to see you.”

His chest pangs with an unnameable hurt. “Funny way you have of showing it, Sir.” His sleeve tickles as he draws it across his nose, sniffs. “Perhaps it would suit you better if I were to bed down with the horses?”

Washington looks taken aback at the suggestion. “You would prefer the stables?”

“I prefer nothing,” he screeches, “I only thought that, I mean I had hoped that--”

Washington’s thick eyebrows knit together. Comprehension finally dawns upon him. “You’re upset.”

“I’m not,” he lies. He feels so young in this spare white room. Bright spots linger behind Alexander’s eyes as he pants for breath. The ladder is solid, a firm weight under his bloodied palm. Maybe the floor will swallow him up and he will find himself transported home to New York. He does not belong here, even in servant’s quarters.

Measured, Washington takes a step towards him. Alexander backs away. His hands ball into fists at his sides. Once Washington has left he will find a use for this anger -- invective, an argument in the press, a letter to Jay -- but in the meantime, he summons all his fortitude to keep the tears pricking his eyes from falling. Washington takes another step. Dust motes swirl in the streaks of light which escape through the shutters.

His fury is unleashed into another barb. “It is time for supper, Sir. Am I to be permitted to dine inside, with you and Mrs Washington? Or am I undesired at your table as well as in your house?” he snaps. At this rate he will never be invited back, so why not make the break clean? The rebuff will hurt less if he initiates it.

Washington’s mouth sets into a hard, firm line, and even through his silence, Alexander feels the heavy weight of his disappointment. Lashing out like this is cowardly, but since when has he been brave? But above his mouth Washington’s eyes are kind and warm, and they see beneath his childish tantrums to the hurt below.

The general takes one tentative step forward. Then another, more forward. “Don’t,” he says in a rush as Washington crowds him against the ladder, “don’t do that.” Alexander turns his head to stare at the doorway.

“Do what?” he asks, and he follows his gaze. Washington does not permit Alexander to look away.

With the back of his hand, he wipes his eyes. He fights a losing battle with the tears. “Don’t _look_ at me like that.”   

Washington chuckles and reaches out a hand to touch Alexander’s cheek. Thank heavens for the ladder or his knees would buckle beneath him. The general’s touch is gentle, his hands calloused and rough. A gentleman, yes, but a farmer, too. A soldier. “Your hair,” he pauses, brushes a stray bit off Alexander’s forehead. It must look a mess. “It suits you like this.”

All at once the tears he fought to hold back stream down his cheeks, and the general’s palm strokes the side of his face. He cannot help but lean into the caress, though he wets Washington’s cuff in the process.

“Goddamn it, sir,” he says, blinking open wet eyes, “are you going to kiss me or not?”

“Language,” Washington chastens, but he smiles and then he finally, finally touches his lips to Alexander’s own. The blush on his cheeks blooms hot as he opens his mouth. Salt and sweat mingle on his lips as he yields to Washington’s tongue. Those powerful hands clasp the sides of his face as Alexander surrenders into the kiss like a maiden in a swoon. It is as if his whole body has been set aflame at both ends. From the inside, the feelings of shame at his humble station mix with the burning desire to be taken, overwhelmed; from the outside, his reddened thighs chafe from the walk, the journey, and his cheeks are aflame with sun and humiliation. A heady mix, to be sure. 

Washington’s stubble grazes his chin. Every kiss that was denied him behind the magnolias and in the woodlot is paid back threefold. Washington braces himself, clasps Alexander’s hand in his own and pins it above his head against the ladder. With his free hand he dives beneath Alexander’s silken jacket, his waistcoat.

“You must forgive me exiling you from the main house,” Washington pulls back to tell him. His eyes are dark and Alexander can feel the weight of his need against his hip. “It would be imprudent to have you so close. Mrs. Washington may be a sound sleeper, but I plan to draw such noises from you tonight as to wake even the dead.”

“Sir,” he insists, one hand weakly pushing at Washington’s chest, “You need to dress. You will be late.” Washington growls. His leg works its way between Alexander’s.

“Then we will both be late,” retorts Washington. He rolls his hips and sends Alexander on to his tiptoes with the movement. “Mrs. Washington has already heard much about your perpetual tardiness.”

“Ten minutes for you, sir,” Alexander says, “One time, that was, and _oh_ \--”

Alexander gasps. The familiar press of Washington’s body against his own sends him back to the secrecy of the war: cramped tents, winter quarters, rooming houses.

“During the war--” he begins, and lets the thought trail off unfinished as Washington’s tongue traces the shell of his ear. _During the war you used my mouth when you could not sleep. During the war I learned how to bite down on a bit of rope to keep silent in encampments. During the war absolute quiet was all you asked of me._

Washington murmurs against Alexander’s mouth. “We are done with war, yes, but not with secrecy. For that I apologize.“ He kisses a spot on Alexander’s neck that makes him arch against the ladder. Washington’s eyes are dark. Alexander knows that look; it is that of a man whose desire to be satisfied outweighs provident thought. His own cock pulses against the tight confines of his silken trousers. At a glance, he sees that Washington is similarly affected. The black velvet of his breeches draws tight around his erection. Alexander fumbles his way towards it, desperate to touch though his hands shake.

“Not now, son,” Washington says, and Alexander groans as he grabs both his wrists with one large hand. Warmth curls in his belly at the thought of being taken apart by those strong hands. Of being used the way his commander used to use him. “There will be plenty of time for that later tonight.”

They kiss until his head swims. The bell chimes again. They are undoubtedly going to be late for dinner.

“Mr. Hamilton,” says Washington, "Would you do me the honour of dining with me this evening?" 

"Sir," he answers, "it would be my pleasure." 

He releases his hands and Alexander cannot help but protest at the loss of his touch. Washington straightens the placket of his breeches and Alexander whimpers. "Meet me in the house in fifteen minutes, please," he says, "and if Mrs. Washington should enquire--" 

"--I will tell her I am fascinated by weather reports," he answers, his voice hoarse and tongue thick in his mouth.

"Very good, my boy," he smiles, dropping a last kiss on Alexander's cheek before he leaves, "very good indeed." 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a holiday visit to Mount Vernon because history + sin is my new jam. There are amazing [resources online](http://www.mountvernon.org/the-estate-gardens/outbuildings/) about the estate and its gardens, should anyone want to indulge my thirst for stable sex. Washington broke all his horses in himself, guys, so you're totally free to use that information in any way you see fit.


End file.
